


Ray tracing

by gearbox



Category: due South
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-09-20
Updated: 2000-09-20
Packaged: 2017-10-26 07:31:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/280399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gearbox/pseuds/gearbox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray is asleep in Fraser's cot in the Consulate. It doesn't occur to Fraser that he's brought Ray home to meet the family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ray tracing

**Author's Note:**

> Beta comments graciously supplied by Crysothemis and Erica.

Ray was dead to the world. Although, as I well know, the physically dead are sometimes not actually dead to the world at all. Just to most of it. I cannot speak for others, but my own dead intrude on my life with irritating regularity.

But Ray was not physically dead, merely sleeping very deeply, exhausted, gracing my cot with his presence, finally languid after a long week's edgy nerves. His weariness had been evident when he agreed to accompany me to the Consulate tonight, rather than returning to his own apartment. He hadn't even argued when I suggested that he stay away from home until the last of the terrorists were picked up and he shed his persona of a homeless and somewhat demented man.

He had played the part very well, apparently taking a page from Hamlet in asking the suspects leading questions amid nonsensical ramblings. The credit for the arrests was entirely his.

The odor in the room was also entirely his. Ray was filthy -- the days of undercover work had taxed his stamina and taken a regrettable toll on his hygiene. The smell of the fish-and-chips dinners (which I bought him each evening in an apparent act of charity during our brief daily contact) lingered. Redolent. As rich as the aroma in a late-winter cabin after months of eating dried salmon.

My window was already wide open. I considered fetching a box fan from the kitchen to ventilate the room more efficiently, but in the end I decided not to: the noise of the fan might disturb Ray, and its presence when he woke would almost certainly embarrass him. I wanted him to sleep himself out.

And, I admit, I wanted the luxury of watching him in the soft light of my desk lamp. Watching him sleep, safe and sound and victorious. Ray is a formidable man, and I enjoy our partnership very much. He has also become a friend surprisingly quickly. From the moment we met, he's barraged me with himself, with companionship and trust, the intimacy of friends.

I am more used to reserve, of spending months or years getting to know a person before admitting them to friendship. That is the way I grew up, the way we lived. Outlanders might live in the North for decades before they were truly accepted into the community. Even travelers such as my grandparents and I took a good long time to settle into each new place. Only after three years in Aklavik did I shed the title of "the new boy." Of course, "Boomboom," my nickname after the incident in the mine, was hardly preferable.

I cleared my throat, as though I could remove the taste of embarrassment. What to do next? My work was finished for the day. Ray was warm, safe, comfortable. I had bathed and dried Diefenbaker, over his vociferous protests. While I agreed with him that a self-respecting wolf in his natural habitat would never submit to such treatment, I had also had to remind him forcefully that standards of cleanliness are higher in the City and both of us must submit to the demands of our environment. Besides, he's only half wolf.

He'd taken offense, and was unlikely to grace us with his sweet-smelling presence again until tomorrow. He would come back for breakfast. Ray provides him with donuts when my back is turned. I've seen enough powdered sugar on Diefenbaker's nose to detect their conspiracy, although I feign ignorance.

I leaned back in my desk chair and picked up one of my father's journals. But before I could open it, my father was there, standing in the doorway to my closet. I set the book down, unopened. I knew from experience that he'd stay until he had his say.

"Hi Dad."

But he didn't say anything for a moment. He just looked into my office, crowded now, with both the cot set up and the desk chair pulled out. "That was a good job, Son."

"Yes it was, Dad." Praise from my father is rare enough to disconcert me, although I confess I felt a warm glow from it.

He added, "The Yank is really something. I didn't think he would kick Jergens in the head."

"Dad, the man was resisting arrest and in possession of a rather large bomb." And he was about to kill me, but I felt no need to bring that up.

"Oh, I agree, he was right to do it -- I just didn't think he could. Using the grappling hook to latch onto the rafter, and then swinging across the garage on the extension cord. . . that took initiative."

"Ray has a great deal of initiative."

"He does, son, he does." He watched Ray sleep for a few minutes. He seemed melancholy, although knowing the way Dad thinks, I wouldn't even try to imagine why. "And you brought him home, afterwards, that's good. A man has to take care of his partner."

"Of course, Dad."

He sighed. "Well, I wanted grandchildren, but I suppose I'll get used to it."

This was one of his more startling non sequiturs. "You're not still going on about Janet, are you?"

"No, no, it's all right. Just a bit to get used to."

"Dad, she was only in town for a couple days."

"But think about it, Benton. A home, children on your knee, a hard-working young woman by your side, and warm stew on the stove when you get home. . ."

The vision was tempting, but impossibly far out of reach. Thinking about it just made me ache. "If it was so great, why were you always away, Dad?"

"That's not the point. The point is, don't dismiss that future too quickly. Are you sure that this is what you want?"

"No Dad. This," I waved at the room, "is not all I want. But it is the part that I have now."

We were silent for a moment. Ray tossed, and I pulled the covers back up over him. I'd have to wash the sheets tomorrow. The greasy hair matted to Ray's forehead reflected the lamplight.

After a moment, Dad coughed. "Well. I suppose you'll be getting ready for bed now. I'll just finish up at my desk before I head out. Don't let me disturb you."

I blinked at him. Our conversations these days were even more opaque than usual. "Goodnight, Dad." I arranged the spare blanket over me and turned off the light, before settling to sleep in the chair.


End file.
